Murder Is Come Again by Joan Smith Page A

Reginald’s books. He said, “If by any chance Bolger buried the necklace, the only place he could have done it is the cellar.”
    “I hardly think he’d bury it if he planned to sell it so soon,” Prance pointed out.
    “Could be he had a hole dug that he used on a regular basis. I’ll go below and have a look.” He picked up a lamp, lit it and headed below.
    “I’ll go with Black,” Coffen said, and took up a lamp to follow him.
    “I’ll search the kitchen, as that’s where he had his tools,” Luten said.
    Prance strolled around the drawing room with Corinne, tapping walls with a great air of concentration, just as if he knew what he was listening for. He stopped to examine inferior paintings, mentioning that Bolger occasionally dealt in art as well. He lifted the bottom of each one from the wall to make sure the hiding place wasn’t concealed behind it. He pushed and shoved the raised carvings on the mantle lest one should slide to reveal a hidden cavity.
    Finding none, he claimed the carving was certainly not the work of Grinling Gibbons and pointed out that the room was rather small for parties. It would hardly hold four squares, let alone the musicians. The chandelier, he allowed, was pretty, but badly in need of polishing. Not wanting to pass it with such a meager fault, he added, “It looks as if it’s had some of the crystals replaced by an amateur. That inner ring doesn’t hang straight.”
    Then he proceeded to denigrate a painting that was obviously a bogus Gainsborough. “Gainsborough’s models look lifeless to be sure, but even his representations do not look quite so embalmed as these sad creatures. Madame Tussaud’s wax works are more lifelike.”
    “There’s nothing here. How about the floor?” Corinne suggested, and they proceeded to pace the floor, which seemed as innocent as the walls.
    The search carried out belowstairs was more serious. The cellar had a low ceiling and no windows. The lamps provided inadequate lighting, but the search was conducted as thoroughly as these limitations permitted, to the dismay of black beetles and various insects. No mice came to frighten them, perhaps due to the plethora of cats in the neighbourhood. There was a lingering aroma of brandy, but only the one keg there and the one glass, the dregs now turned to a syrupy consistency. They rolled the keg about to make sure by the swishing sound of liquid that it did contain brandy and not diamonds.
    “I didn’t figure he’d put a necklace in there. Too hard to get it out. You’d ought to get this keg out of here before it’s stolen, Mr. Pattle.”
    “I can’t take it to the hotel.”
    “Take it to Luten’s place to take home with you. Or we could empty it into bottles for easier transporting.”
    “You can have it if you want it, Black. I prefer wine or ale. I have a keg at home for emergencies.”
    The walls, what could be seen of them, were solid, rough stonework. No stone could be jiggled loose to provide a secret hiding place behind. Some old discarded furniture and junk were ranged against the walls — chairs with only two or three legs, a couple of mouldy trunks, three wheels from a carriage, even an old stove. They moved everything but the stove from the wall, and found no opening, nor was there anything but soot in the stove. Black called Coffen to help him move the stove, but their combined strength couldn’t budge it.
    “I wonder how they ever got it down here,” Black said, wiping his brow.
    “And why,” Coffen added, with one last, suspicious look. “Let’s have a look in the trunks.”
    They opened the trunks to find the mummified remains of a mouse nest in an old suit of clothes in one, an aged greatcoat, yellowing journals and magazines in the other. Black glanced at them but could find no reason why they had been saved. The journals might be of some historical interest, but they were badly nibbled by mice. He closed the lids and examined the earthen floor, which appeared